While I weed and potter
a jovial thrush keeps up a prolonged dissertation
on a conversational note, with inflexion
reminiscent of a day in France
when a local woman of relatable age
in the queue at the gare, engaged
me in earnest discourse
while I ouied and nodded
and ouied and smiled as you do
and ouied and mirrored her mood
and ouied over a rising urge to burst
into laughter, until her tone
and repetition conveyed
that a reply was expected;
so I confessed in my own tongue
that I was another ignorant foreigner,
tested my je ne comprends pas,
and detached myself as she turned away
in what may have been disgust or pity
or embarrassment.
My thrush makes no demands,
content to have an audience
or so I presume.
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